Review of George MacDonald’s David Elginbrod in The Reader (1863)

"David Elginbrod" represents, in fact, too
entirely the distinct divisions into which
modern fiction has broken itself up. Now
that the novel covers the ground occupied in
former days by the sermon, the essay, the
poem (we are not inquiring into the desirableness
of the undoubted fact), it behoves a
writer to select and retain his peculiar aim.
In the case of the work before us, several
very divergent tendencies seem to have been
at work in the mind of the writer, some
of them pointing, perhaps, altogether boyond the field of the novelist.

IT is a difficult matter to define the legitimate limits of the supernatural in fiction.
In every individual instance, the instinct
which leads us to decide that the particular
suggestion is or is not happy, is remarkably
unvarying. Pew people would deny, for
instance (though Mr. Ruskin is, we believe,
among the exceptions) that "Scott's "White
Lady" is an inharmonious excrescence on the
romance in which she takes a part, while the
analogous agencies in the “Lay of the Last
Minstrel” are a part of the whole thing;
but the distinction is not easy to put into a
formula.

It is somewhat unfortunate that the novel
which has suggested this remark, and which
fails, as we have implied, in the subtle and
peculiar qualities needed for a work of this
kind, inevitably suggests a rival, by which
indeed it is no disgrace to be eclipsed. Mr.
Macdonald has ventured on that twilight
region, where we may, according to our
temperament, see more or less of the supernatural, which Nathaniel Hawthorne has
made peculiarly his own; and it is impossible to read "David Elginbrod"
without remembering the "Blythedale
Romance," and "Transformation." It does
not stand the comparison in any single point;
but it would be most unfair to form our
judgment from this inferiority, for the work
has many passages of a higher kind of merit
than the wonderful dreamlike harmony, the
presentment of this mero every-day life under
such an aspect, that the supernatural seems
in perfect keeping with it, which is the
uniquo possession of its American rival. It
must be said, however, that these passages
are, for the most part, without any dramatic
relevancy whatever, and the critic could find
more unmixed commendation for the work if
it came under his notice as a series of essays;
the remarks put into that form would, in
some cases, lose their only defect, of being
entirely out of place in the characters
who are supposed to give utterance to them.

"David Elginbrod" represents, in fact, too
entirely the distinct divisions into which
modern fiction has broken itself up. Now
that the novel covers the ground occupied in
former days by the sermon, the essay, the
poem (we are not inquiring into the desirableness
of the undoubted fact), it behoves a
writer to select and retain his peculiar aim.
In the case of the work before us, several
very divergent tendencies seem to have been
at work in the mind of the writer, some
of them pointing, perhaps, altogether boyond the field of the novelist. In the
first place—and we could overlook much
heavier sins than any the book contains, for the sake of it—he has to present to
us an exquisite little idyll, reminding us of
the pictures of Frere or the lyrics of Burns,
so full of a delicate fragrance and freshness
that it is impossible not to feel we are in
contact with something partaking of the nature of reminiscence. If this were the principal part of the book, as it is the only part
of it that dwells in the memory, all blemishes
would sink into insignificance — the fresh
Highland airs would conquer the sickly vapours which hang over the rest. But, alas!
it does not reach half through the first of the
three volumes. David Elginbrod, the old
Highland ploughman, whose one solid character among a set of shadows gives the book
substance, disappears from the scene before any of the real action of the story — such as it is — begins. Yet, short as is the glimpse into the Scotch bothie, it is enough, we believe, to give a certain permanence to the
work of which it forms so trifling a part.
Secondly, Mr. Macdonald wishes, if we
have rightly understood his meaning, to
make of the facts of mesmerism — and of what is
absurdly called spiritualism — the parable of man's struggle and temptation upon earth.
The conception of a nervous and morbid girl
fallen under the mysterious influence of a
villain, and redeemed by the power of simple
faith and love, is not new; but though the
hysterical heroine, the villain, and the redeeming Margaret, are all alike colourless shadows, the intensity of the feeling which
symbolises the human race in the poor mesmerised Euphra lends a certain interest — we cannot say force — to the whole. Nevertheless,
this part of the story is a failure. It
needs delicate perception of character, a
healthy instinct for absurdity, and a capacity
for distinguishing between what is possible
in dreams and real life, which our author is
entirely without. Wo give an instance
which seems to exemplify all these defects.
The villain has succeeded in possessing himself, through the agency of his unhappy patient, of a ring belonging to a Mr.
Arnold, who is intended to represent tho
dry common-sense English squire; and he,
on the point of instituting inquiries on
the subject, is checked by the warning of the principal personage in the story, that in that case a fact must be mentioned which will
betray that the house is haunted! But the whole of this part of the book is such that this fragment does not stand forth in any very prominent absurdity. As everybody is oppressed by feverish dreams, we do not find
one incoherent utterance more absurd than another. It is deeply disappointing to leave behind that dewy Highland air, and the sweet landscape which he paints with such delicate and loving touches, and find ourselves
shut up, for therest of the book, in the close
and stifling atmosphere of the darkened sickroom. Thirdly, the author seems to have found, in the reaction from Calvinism, a
triumphant satisfaction in the belief of God's
universal fatherhood, which demands expression from its
very exuberance. Whether a novel was a proper form for this expression we do not attempt to decide. It may be said that the picture of human beings which left out this side of their nature would be an incomplete one, while the objections to the religious novel are obvious enough. We shall only
say, we ore certain there is no real irreverence in the frequent use of sacred words which will offend the taste of many readers. The relation of father and child, beautifully exemplified in Margaret's feeling for her father, is
the key-note of the whole, and lends a tone of childlike familiarity to the higher relation it typifies, or rather expresses. The friends
of Mr. Maurice will not, we imagine, quarrel with the dramatic fault of introducing a long
conversation on the subject of his teaching, in
which it seems to us not unworthily interpreted. Could we have mado this book faithful to its title, and kept it chiefly occupied
with "David Elginbrod," it would have possessed no common claim on the attention
of our readers. As it is, that one small portion is enough to make it well worth reading.

References

DAVID ELGINBBOD. By George Macdonald. Hurst and Blackett. Three Vols., 8vo. 1863. 31a. 6d.

[“David Elginbrod”]. The Reader: A Journal of Literature, Science, and Art. London: “Published at 112, Fleet Street,” 1863. Hathi Digital Library Trust web version of a copy in the Princeton University Library. 17 July 2016.